The Ghost by the Billabong Page 17

  A considering silence. ‘Can people in wheelchairs play basketball?’

  ‘I don’t see why not.’

  Nicholas had seen wheelchair basketball, could even play it now that his back was so improved, but had no wish to. Basketball was a diversion, something to fill emptiness, like the kids playing wheelchair cricket back at River View. Not a real life.

  He wheeled himself down the ramp and took a deep breath of air that wasn’t laden with Christmas meats and puddings, but with the good scents of sheep and gum trees, and hot ripe apricots from the orchard. He could listen to the last grumblings of the cicadas and the thud of hooves from the horse yards behind the house.

  His wheelchair could reach the horse yards too — but not put him on the back of a horse. He’d loved riding once, his body merging with the horse’s speed and strength.

  He turned the other way, down the driveway, hesitated, then began to urge his chair onto the more uneven ground approaching the creek that wandered down to the overflow channels that gave the property its name, and finally to the summer-narrow river.

  He knew how to land safely if he overbalanced now. His chair was light enough to push it upright again; stable enough to manage to clamber back into too, though he’d prefer that no one watched him crawl back into it.

  The sound of hooves again. A horseman cantered past, raised a hand in half-salute, then vanished around a corner.

  He’d ridden like that once. Carelessly, confidently — he had been in the saddle from a time when he was too young to remember, when Dad had been working at Yass. Which, come to think of it, might be why he had pushed enough of his apathy aside to come to Gibber’s Creek: not just for the promise of a more active rehabilitation, but because there would be sheep and a river, and the songs of crows and magpies, currawongs and kookaburras, and the eternal bleat of sheep.

  But no horse riding now, or ever. No running, no pushing his body through the surf, that intrinsic part of a Sydney Christmas he realised was a large part of what he couldn’t face.

  But wherever he hid, what he couldn’t do was all around him still.

  He was alive. That had to count for something, after so many had done so much to keep him that way. He was reasonably mobile, could read and write. And, more importantly, this afternoon he had written the first chapter of the book he had tentatively called The Clever War, then torn it up. But he knew what he’d done wrong now, and the next draft would be better. He could write. He could, perhaps, even have a girlfriend . . .

  One wheel of the chair bumped down into a wombat hole, as if his chair was jolting his thoughts to a stop. He attended to the chair first, pushing his body to one side to try to jerk it out, wheeling backwards, then forwards again.

  Still stuck. Which meant sliding out frontwards, like a slug with arms, and pulling the chair out himself, or calling for help.

  He sat still and let the thoughts continue instead. If he had a girlfriend, it would have to be someone who could face the ruin of his legs. Like Jed . . .

  He had felt pure, immediate desire for her that morning, sitting on Scarlett’s bed in her thin T-shirt. Had been glad of the excuse to wheel down the corridor while she dressed Scarlett, so she wouldn’t notice.

  He had always taken his attractiveness for granted, a blessing of lucky genes and athleticism, riding back at Yass, rowing at school and university. There had been girls who had found him attractive after Vietnam too. But he had always been aware that their feelings were mixed with protectiveness and pity, and even, though they would probably never have admitted it to themselves, a form of attention seeking: ‘Look at me! I have a boyfriend with no legs!’

  Not Jed. But he wasn’t sure what he felt about Jed Kelly at all.

  Her name, for one thing. Obviously fake — no one called a girl ‘Jed’ and, if it were a nickname, why not tell the Thompsons her real name too? But he had found himself feeling protective. It was a strange sensation, after being the one cared for, to know he might — perhaps — look after someone else.

  Did she really have no one who wondered where she was at Christmas? Who had hoped she’d be with them, as his parents — he acknowledged guiltily — would be missing him? Nancy had implied she’d arrived literally penniless, carrying what little she owned in that tatty shoulder bag she still had not discarded, even though she could have bought or even made a new one by now.

  His injuries didn’t repulse her. She could even joke about them, not with the professional positive brightness he was so tired of, but genuinely finding that kid’s fascination with the grotesque amusing. She didn’t hassle him about ‘looking on the bright side’, nor even with questions about his time in Vietnam.

  But could he trust her? Who was Jed Kelly, really?

  Chapter 29

  JED

  The house was quiet, except for the murmur of the women in the kitchen, the scramble of a possum as it woke up in the ceiling and began to climb outside. Jed hung Scarlett’s fairy dress where she could see it from her bed the next morning.

  ‘Jed?’ The little girl gazed at her from her bed.

  ‘Mmm?’

  ‘Would you like to be my mum?’

  Jed froze, then turned to the small face earnest on the pillow. ‘You . . . you have a mother.’

  ‘She doesn’t want me. And I heard her telling Dad that no one would ’dopt me when there are lots of proper babies to ’dopt. But would you like me, Jed?’

  ‘I . . .’ Terror gripped her, shredding her. She tried to find words, any words.

  ‘Because you don’t have anyone, do you? Except Mr Thompson. So you could have me. I promise I’ll learn to use the machine chair, so you won’t have to push me. I promise really, really HARD.’

  Jed wanted to run, to keep on running. How could a small child deliver a blow like this? Her, a mother! Even the word hurt almost too much to allow it into her brain.

  But she couldn’t run. Scarlett hadn’t meant to hurt her. And whatever Jed had been through was small compared to the battle this kid went through every day.

  ‘You like me, don’t you, Jed?’ The voice trembled slightly.

  Jed slumped back on the end of the bed, as breathless as if she had been running. ‘Of course I like you. I love —’ She stopped, then said the words clearly, the first time she had ever said the words aloud: ‘I love you. Of course I love you, you dumb fairy. But I’d make a lousy mother.’

  ‘No, you wouldn’t.’

  She couldn’t run. Couldn’t show this child who had so little how much the suggestion had rocked her. Had to grasp some of the courage this child managed, day after day. ‘I’d be a rotten mum,’ she said gently. ‘But you’ve got Nancy.’

  ‘Nancy won’t ’dopt anyone. I heard Matron talking about it. If she can’t have her own kids, she doesn’t want to ’dopt others.’

  ‘I see.’ Jed had wondered why the obviously child-loving couple hadn’t at the least had foster children. So Jed too might never be quite family then, without that precious tie of blood . . . She looked back at the small face on the pillow. ‘Scarlett, darling, I can’t be around all the time, not like a mother would be. I need to go back to school. To university.’ Not to mention being forced to leave if the Thompsons’ investigators found out too much.

  ‘You’re too OLD to go to school!’

  ‘I’m not that old.’ Miraculously, her voice stayed steady. ‘Scarlett, Nancy and Michael love you. I don’t know why they don’t want to adopt kids, but I know — I’m sure — they’ll always love you.’ She managed to add, ‘You’re very lovable, you know. Some people are.’

  And she was not. Jed had known that for a very long time. The girls at school liked her, mostly. Tolerated her, anyway. But there were no true close friendships with any of them. She’d seen close friendships and had been jealous. There was something about her that had made deeper friendships impossible.

  ‘How about being my sister then?’ asked Scarlett hopefully.

  ‘I . . . I could do that. But maybe o
ne day you wouldn’t want me for a sister.’ Would even Scarlett turn away from her if she knew everything?

  ‘Of COURSE I would,’ insisted Scarlett.

  You don’t know me, thought Jed. ‘Next Christmas,’ she said impulsively. ‘Ask me again next Christmas. If you still want me for a sister then, I will be.’

  ‘When are you going away, Jed?’ Scarlett’s voice held the resignation of a child who had been sent like a package wherever the adult world wished her whole life.

  ‘I don’t know.’ It was the only truthful answer Jed could give.

  ‘Will you tell me before you go?’

  ‘If I can. If I can’t, I’ll write to you.’

  ‘Really? I’ve never got a letter!’

  ‘I promise then. If I have to go away, I’ll send you lots of letters. And maybe,’ please let the maybe come true, she prayed, ‘maybe I won’t have to go away for at least a year. And then just to uni in term time, and come back here in the holidays.’

  Scarlett considered. ‘That would be okay,’ she said at last.

  Jed nodded. ‘Yes,’ she whispered. ‘That would be okay.’

  She kissed the small girl’s cheek — she had done more kissing in the last few weeks than in her entire previous life — and left the room, keeping all emotion from her face, then stood in the corridor.

  Memories. They crashed about her, nudging, flashing. She couldn’t run to the road, hold out her thumb for a ride to a new place, and then another and another. But she could walk. Walk far and fast enough to escape the memories for a while. She stumbled down the corridor, then down the ramp, and took a deep breath of gum-tree air.

  Daylight had thickened into shadow, but there was still at least an hour before it would be too dark to see. She almost ran down the driveway, heading for the creek.

  ‘Jed?’

  ‘Nicholas! What are you doing here?’ She made her way through the thistles towards him.

  ‘Nothing much. My wheel is stuck in a wombat hole . . .’

  It was such a normal, silly thing that the past, the guilt, retreated.

  She didn’t ask why he had been wheeling himself over the paddock. Probably for the same reason she’d headed out — to be alone, away from memories that hurt too much.

  ‘We’d better get you out before the wombat wants to use its front door.’ She grabbed the chair handles, lifted the wheel out of the hole, and pushed the chair safely a yard away. ‘Okay?’

  He wheeled forwards a few more yards, then wheeled back to face her. ‘Yes, thanks.’

  ‘Where are you going? Do you . . . Would you like me to come with you? In case you get stuck again?’

  ‘I was just heading down to the creek.’

  It wasn’t an answer. She waited. ‘Yes,’ he said at last. ‘I’d like you to come too.’ He had a shadow of a grin. ‘And not just to protect me from the wombat holes.’

  He wheeled, she walked, in silence. He stopped when they reached the small rise above the creek. ‘This will do it for me.’

  Some time in the past few weeks she had begun to see that there were differences in gum trees. The ones higher up the hills had bark like giant ridges of Berber carpet. The trees above them now were softly trunked in creams and orange dapples, the branches reaching up to a deepening sky, just beginning to be kissed by stars.

  There was a boulder, left by some long-past flood. She checked it for snakes, spiders and anything else that might crawl or bite, then sat, watching the water. Endless water, rippling down the smallest of channels eroded in the rock.

  ‘There’s a pool a little way down from here,’ Nicholas said at last. ‘I haven’t seen it. I heard Nancy talking about it. It’s big enough to swim in. But I suppose it’s easier to get to the river, even if it’s further away.’

  ‘Probably. Can you still swim?’

  The question was asked so easily that he seemed to find it easy to answer too. ‘Yes. I swim most days. There’s a therapy pool at River View. Haven’t you seen it?’

  She shook her head. ‘They haven’t given me a tour of the premises yet, in case I steal a couple of wheelchairs. Maybe in the new year.’ She flashed him a half-smile. ‘I might get to see you swim.’

  ‘If you can call it swimming. It’s more like treading water very fast. Backstroke is easier, for some reason. You really think they don’t trust you?’

  ‘Why should they? No references. And claiming one of the richest men in Australia as my great-grandfather.’ She wondered suddenly what would have happened if she had just appeared at River View, asking for a job, with no mention of any possible claim on them. Perhaps she’d be exactly where she was now, but trusted. A job, a place to stay. Help, probably, to go to night school, then uni. These people liked to help.

  Too late for that now. She looked at him, as he watched the flashing water. Suddenly she found herself wishing he’d ask if he could kiss her. Before she met him, she’d felt only revulsion at the thought of kissing. She would like to touch him. To feel his hands —

  ‘Jed?’

  She jumped, hoping he couldn’t guess what she’d been thinking. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Do you trust me?’

  She hadn’t expected that. Did she trust him? Like him, admire him and, yes, love him in some strange ‘still to come’ way. But trust?

  Who was he, really? Or at least, who had he become in Vietnam? He had told her so little. Even Nancy didn’t know how he had lost his legs, just that he needed rehabilitation now. Did he have secrets of his own, as hard as hers?

  She looked at him. Once again the older man was there, and the love she felt for him. The answer was suddenly obvious. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Will you tell me the truth? If I promise I will tell no one what you’ve told me.’

  She felt herself turn as motionless as the stone. ‘What bit of truth do you want?’ she managed.

  ‘Are you Mr Thompson’s great-granddaughter?’

  ‘You really want the truth?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I care about you. I . . . I haven’t cared about anyone much before. Not even myself.’

  She felt as if the Earth and moon had stopped, waiting for her answer. How could she respond to that, except with the truth? Not all of it, but no lies either. Nor evasions, not with him.

  Was she Thomas Thompson’s great-granddaughter? She looked out at the creek again, as if the almost glowing bedrock under the water might whisper an answer to her.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said.

  ‘Don’t know if you can trust me to keep your confidence?’

  ‘I don’t know if I’m related to Mr Thompson.’ She swung around, grasped her knees and looked at the chair, not him. ‘I told him the truth. I just left bits out.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘I was born in America, just like I said. Mum — Dad too — were Australian. My grandmother’s name was Anna, just like Mr Thompson’s daughter. It’s my middle name too: that’s how I know it was hers. But it’s a common name. On the other hand, Mum’s name was Rose, and that isn’t such a common name. But I don’t know her grandparents’ surname. I don’t even know her maiden name. If she was married to someone else before Dad, then no one ever told me.’

  ‘So you don’t know that you’re Tommy’s great-granddaughter?’

  ‘I don’t know that I’m not either! I might be.’

  ‘You must know more than that! What city were you born in?’

  ‘I don’t know. I do know we moved a couple of times, even when Mum was alive. She died when I was four, remember. I know we sailed from New York because I can remember the Statue of Liberty, but I don’t remember if we lived there, or just went there to go to Australia. Dad never talked about Mum, or her family. Not ever. I . . . I think that it wasn’t a good marriage. But I don’t really know that either. Then Dad died and . . .’ She stopped herself from giving Debbie’s name. ‘By the time I wanted to ask questions, no one knew the answers.’

  She looked up at his f
ace. No anger. No revulsion. He just looked thoughtful.

  ‘I just assumed I didn’t have any other family. I mean, families keep in touch, don’t they? So if no one sent me birthday cards, then there mustn’t be anyone to send them. But then I found the newspaper with that big article on Mr Thompson in a library a couple of months ago. It said that his daughter had died tragically of cancer, a year after her husband’s death, that their daughter, Rose, had married a Captain Zambriski and had been a war bride and gone to America. That she’d vanished. And I thought: that could be Mum. Her name was Rose. She was Australian, living in America. Maybe she left her first husband and married Dad.’

  ‘Do you think that’s really what happened? It’s not much to hang a story on,’ he added gently. ‘Just that your mother’s name was Rose, and she was an Australian living in the USA.’

  ‘And my middle name is Anna. Not Anne, after Princess Anne, like half the other girls at school. Anna, like Tommy’s daughter.’

  The wind was cold. No, the wind hadn’t changed. Her face was cold because it was wet. It was wet because there were tears. And she never cried. Never. She rubbed her eyes angrily. ‘I don’t know! I want it to be true. I want it so much that it frightens me.’

  ‘It’s a lot of money,’ he said evenly.

  ‘I don’t care about the money! I keep telling people that and they don’t believe me. But I don’t lie! I just don’t . . .’

  His eyes were fixed on her face. ‘Tell all the truth?’

  ‘I never thought he could leave me millions. You can’t go changing your will on your deathbed, not in real life, or not without the rest of the family going to court to stop it. I just hoped they’d accept me. I’d have tried to find him, even if he’d had no money at all. I just want a family. A home!’

  The words wouldn’t stop now. ‘Every day with D— my stepmother . . . I knew she could throw me out at any time. “You’re not my real daughter,” she’d tell me whenever I did anything wrong. “I can send you to live in a home any time I want.” And then . . .’